


Percival Graves Thinks he is Awake

by ImpulsiveUserName



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Bed-Wetting, Captivity, Claustrophobia, Collars, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Hallucinations, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, Sensory Deprivation, Starvation, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulsiveUserName/pseuds/ImpulsiveUserName
Summary: Please read tags.Percival Graves thinks he is awake.He feels the hunger pangs roiling in his belly. In sleep, sensations are always muted. Or perhaps it is only after one wakes up that they become muted in memory. Percival isn’t sure.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am a long time reader of fanfiction, an occasional writer, and this is the first fiction I have posted in 8 years. If additional tags should be added let me know.
> 
> Please refer to warnings. There is severe psychological trauma here, if the tags look worrisome, this may not be for you.

Percival Graves thinks he is awake.

He feels the hunger pangs roiling in his belly. In sleep, sensations are always muted. Or perhaps it is only after one wakes up that they become muted in memory. Percival isn’t sure.

His back is stiff, his body aches and his right hand burns. He tries to focus on the pain. Pain means he is alive. It also means he is probably awake. Probably.

He rests his chin on his knees. He is in his own closet in his own bedroom in his own tiny New York apartment, but the closet has been emptied of everything. There is enough room to stand, if he could stand, but there is not enough room to lie down. There is not enough room to stretch his legs out in front of him either. And so, he sits, the way he has sat for what must surely have been months now, butt on the floor, knees to his chest, head on his knees, arms wrapped carefully around his legs. Only his bare back touches the wall. Allowing anything else to touch the wall tends to send him into a panic at the closeness of his confinement. He sometimes tries to imagine he is in a large room but those fantasies always fail.

He is probably awake. Of course, the fact that he sees piles of paperwork dancing in front of him, complaining audibly about him missing deadlines makes it hard to tell for certain.

He knows it cannot be real. He shouldn’t be able to hear or see anything. Grindelwald had seen to that.

He should be coming home soon. Percival is reasonably certain he is being fed once per day, after the standard work day. He only feels hunger pangs like this right before he arrives.

And just like that, the paperwork vanishes and is replaced with a steaming pot pie, placed tantalizingly on his kitchen table. Percival reaches out to take it, mouth watering, and his hand collides with an invisible wall.

He moans in despair as the food vanishes. He shouldn’t have been able to hear himself moan. He is being silly. He is only permitted to eat on the floor anyway.

He feels a sob escape his lips and he quickly shoves his hand in his mouth, biting down hard. The acrid taste of blood overwhelms his senses and he shudders in relief. The visions fade and he becomes aware once more that he is blinded, deafened, and deprived of smell in his own closet. He is grateful for the lack of smell, for there is nowhere to relieve himself, but he wishes he could hear himself shout. When he did hear himself shout, it was a bad sign.

He closes his eyes, although it changes nothing, and focuses on the sensation of his teeth cutting into his hand. He is surely awake, for the pain is intense. Surely.

And soon Mas- Grindelwald will be home to bring him food, and he will be allowed to see, and to hear but not to speak, for he is always silenced, and he will be told about how Grindelwald’s plan is progressing. He will be asked questions he cannot respond to. He will be fed – oh glorious food – and he will be bathed for Grindelwald didn’t like the way he stunk up his apartment. He said it enough.

Percival could already feel the water around him, but just faintly, so it was likely another illusion, and he could feel the sensation of Grindelwald’s hands washing his hair, making him clean, for he did not trust Percival to clean himself. _My pet_ , he called him. _Getting into messes_ , he said. Whose fault was that?

And Percival knew he should be ashamed because he was frustrated that this illusion wouldn’t solidify, wouldn’t become real. That this is what he looks forward to the most every day, the sensation of someone else touching him. He had never craved touch before, but with 8 hours or sometimes more spent every day completely deprived of all senses except taste and touch - from when Grindelwald left for work to when he returned home - touch from an outside source was welcome. Sometimes he tried to run his own hands over his own naked body hoping to draw comfort from them. It never helped.

Percival was always delirious when he was let out. Regaining his senses always hurt. It was hard to readjust to processing stimuli. But this state of isolation was truly maddening. It was always worth it, he would endure anything to see and hear again. He was hungry. Master would be home soon, calling him pet. But his name was Percival Graves. Percival Graves, Percival Graves, Percival Graves.

\---

Percival Graves thinks he is asleep.

He is no longer suffering hunger pains. He is surrounded by his classmates from Ilvermorny and they are discussing their career ideas. Percival tells them of his plans to become an Auror. They expect it of him. He can hear himself talking to them so surely he is asleep.

Percival brings his hand to his mouth and bites down once more, feeling his skin split anew and blood touch his tongue. The illusion flickers and dies. Why did he have to bring himself back?

But something is wrong. He still couldn’t feel the hunger pains. It felt like a rock had settled in his belly. He had felt hungry before. Or had he dreamed that? There hadn’t been a transition from dreaming to wakefulness when he bit his hand. So he had been awake. There rarely was a transition anymore though. So perhaps he had been asleep.

A cold knot of fear settled deep in his gut. Perhaps – perhaps Master – no, Grindelwald, Grindelwald, he mustn’t forget, and he was not a pet, he was Percival Graves, Percival Graves – perhaps Grindelwald had decided not to let him out for dinner. Perhaps he was punishing him for something?

He had been left in the closet for long stretches before, but Grindelwald hadn’t done this to him in ages, not since his last escape attempt. And Percival hadn’t tried to escape since his first week of confinement.

He desperately tries to recall the last time he was let out. And like that the scene plays in front of him, like it was happening now. He feels the air pressure shift which indicates the closet door has opened. He shifts from his sitting position and crawls forward on his hands and knees until he can feel that he is no longer enclosed, his back stiff and screaming from holding the same position all day. Every day. He is kneeling in his bedroom. He is sitting in his closet. He is in both places. He isn’t sure which is real.

He can see first, and though the gas lamps were at their lowest setting, it burns his eyes, and he blinks rapidly until he can see his own face staring down at him with a loving smile. Or perhaps it was condescending. That had been his early impression, back when Grindelwald had first appeared in his life, but it looks loving now.  No matter how many times he tries to convince himself he is delusional, he still sees love there.

Once he manages solid eye contact the deafening spell is lifted and he can hear. And there is only silence but the silence itself is too loud, for he never noticed before his confinement that the shifting air itself has a sound.

Grindelwald asks him something in a whisper, considerate of his sensibilities.

Percival does not react in any way other than to avert eye contact. Now that he can see and hear, this is expected of him. He cannot understand the words, not yet. He is still adjusting. He is lead through what was once his bedroom, and to the kitchen. He crawls of course. That is what pets do, and Grindelwald wants him to be a pet. He tried to fight it in the beginning, but Grindelwald had responded by forcing him to his knees each time he dared to stand. The spell he used was so powerful, it often shattered his kneecaps, and Grindelwald would not heal them until he had crawled to his destination as asked. He stopped trying to stand after a few rounds of the same. He is not certain he could stand if he tried. He knows he could not stand if he tried. So he never tries, not even in the closet when Grindelwald cannot observe, because it would break his heart to confirm it for sure.

There is a bowl of soup for him on the floor. He finds himself grateful that Grindelwald allows him to pick up the bowl and drink from it instead of lap from it like a dog. He knows he would be forced to do so if Grindelwald was in a bad mood. And he hates himself for it, hates being grateful. He is Percival Graves, Director of MACUSA’s department of Magical Law Enforcement. He is Percival Graves. Percival Graves.

He can hear Grindelwald prattling on about his day. He hears the words but he does not understand them. He does manage to pick up the occasional “pet” though, and slowly but surely the words are making more sense. It is a small victory that he is permitted to eat first. Grindelwald used to insist on bathing him first, but Percival always put up a fight, for the hunger pains were practically intolerable. He was more relaxed after he ate anyway, and Grindelwald preferred him docile.

And then he was in the bath. Percival blinked at the lack of transition. He couldn’t remember crawling into the bathroom, nor being levitated into the tub, nor the tub being filled with water. He could not remember being healed, and yet his hand did not hurt as it so constantly did from his habit of biting.

Percival Graves thinks he is asleep.

Grindelwald’s words are making sense now. “Look at you my pet, all covered in your own piss and shit. You probably tracked it all over the carpet. What are we going to do with you, hmm?”

The water is soiled, but it feels vaguely warm, and Percival leans into the hands washing his hair, seeking their gentle contact. They feel vague and distant. Definitely asleep then.

He lets out a strangled sigh, frustrated that he cannot conjure touch properly in his dreams.

“How you pine for me,” Grindelwald chuckles. “Don’t worry. Master will take care of you.”

The vision faded. Oh. A waking illusion then.

Percival Graves thinks he is awake.

The knot is still hard in his stomach. Still not fed. He must have done something wrong yesterday, but he cannot recall leaving the tub and falling asleep, leashed and collared to the foot of what was once his bed, but now belongs to Master. Or- he wasn’t in the tub recently was he? So he must have fallen asleep at the foot of master’s bed like a good pet at some point, and put back in the closet the next morning like usual. What order did these events occur? He always ate, bathed, then sat at Master’s feet while he prattled about his day and taunted him with his plots. He didn’t know why the man bothered, when Percival was always silenced and couldn’t respond. Percival then would sit at the foot of Master’s bed while Master showered and clothed himself in a nightgown, waiting to have the collar placed around his neck, securing his place on the floor. Always on the floor at the foot of the bed while Master slept. Gindelwald slept.

Without warning, Percival smashed his head into the wall of his closet. He couldn’t recall deciding to do it, but it felt right. He wasn’t even sure why. He struck his skull over and over, frustrated by the lack of sensation.

Percival Graves thinks he might be asleep.

But no, the wall is cushioned now, ever since Grindelwald found him unconscious after a botched suicide attempt. And the leather about his wrists prevents him from puncturing the veins close to the surface, as well as it mutes his ability to perform wandless magic. No clothes means no shoelaces and so no means to strangle himself in the empty closet. And no matter how much weight he loses, he cannot slip the leather bracelets.

He feels himself sigh – he wishes he could hear it as well. Perhaps he is awake. Perhaps the food, the bath, were an illusion, and he had been fed, bathed, and slept out in the open next to Grindelwald’s prone sleeping body the night before. The body always held tantalizingly close, but too far away to smother in his sleep. Perhaps he is mistaken, and it is just not time for Grindelwald to come home yet.

Percival desperately shoves his hand in his mouth and bites. His teeth sink into his flesh far too easily, into old wounds and he realizes he has not been healed as normal. It has definitely been some time since he was let out.

Percival’s breath quickens. It starts to hitch. He recognizes the beginnings of a panic attack. He bites down harder, desperately, trying to ground himself. He attempts to kick out his legs, but they hit the closet door before he can gather proper momentum and rather than cause pain he is only reminded of how close the walls are.

He feels dizzy. His ears burn hot, his body feels like it is on fire. He cannot breathe.

His hand is obstructing his airway. He removes it from his mouth, taking gulping rapid breaths and somehow still not receiving air. The pain is fading. The room somehow manages to spin though he cannot see it. He tries to straighten out and relieve pressure from his lungs, tries to right himself, but he can feel himself fading, fading –

\---

Percival Graves thinks he is asleep.

Or at least he hopes he is.

He is in the Woolworth building. Surrounded by his coworkers, his underlings, and yet they are all so terribly tall. Or he is terribly short. Or he is crawling on the floor of the Woolworth building.

He feels the collar around his neck, though he never wears it when he is not expected to sleep. He looks up and sees his own face beaming out at the room. The impostor doesn’t acknowledge him, but is shaking Tina Goldstein’s hand. Percival calls out, desperate, asking her to see that the man’s a fake, the real one is down here, down here.

His pleas are silent. He goes to stand so he can get her attention. His legs won’t cooperate.

She looks at him. He is looking into her eyes. They are a deep dark brown like his. Maybe he is confused and he is looking into his own eyes.

She smiles when she sees him and for the briefest moment, he thinks he is going to be rescued. But then she reaches down and pats his head affectionately. His airway constricts, choking off a silent sob as she says “You’re such a good boy, my pet.”

\---

Percival Graves thinks he is awake.

It is completely silent and he is completely blind once more. The panic that seized him earlier has vanished, but he feels lightheaded. Master will be home soon.

As if on queue, he feels the air pressure change. The door!

Relieved, he surges forward, ready to crawl to meet his Master.

He knocks his head on a wall that shouldn’t be there.

He topples back, startles, head hitting the wall far too lightly. Damn. He hallucinated it again. Of all the hallucinations the sensory deprivation threw his way, this was one of the worst. And it happened far too frequently.

He is surrounded by cruel laughter. It is not Grindelwald’s, but Picquery’s. She is telling him that he is worthless. That he is a pathetic excuse of a human being to be captured, that no one even misses him, that no one knows he is missing. She tells him he can’t even be called human anymore.

Percival settles into her insults, placing his chin on his knees, and wrapping his arms around his legs once more in his familiar eternal position, leather bracelets chafing. She doesn’t need to tell him. He knows he is a pet.

\---

Percival Graves thinks he is awake.

He is reasonably certain he had been sleeping, but he feels the telltale air pressure shift of the door opening. He surges forward, hands and knees, and is met with no invisible wall this time. It’s really open.

His arms tremble, struggling to support him as he crawls the few required feet out of the closet. It must surely have been a long time for he cannot recall ever lacking this much strength.

He feels hands on his shoulders and recoils, flinching backward and falling unceremoniously on his butt. Grindelwald never touched him before. He only touched him when it was time for his bath. But those hands didn’t feel right.

Percival Graves knows he cannot properly hallucinate human touch so he knows he is awake.

He knows those were not Grindelwald’s hands. It is only ever him and Grindelwald and so he knows he is asleep.

There is silence and darkness, but in the open air it is somehow more tolerable. He waits. He feels a presence get far too close. He feels air wafting in front of his face. He wonders if he is going to be slapped. It has been so long since Grindelwald has hurt him though so that isn’t right.

He feels magic hit him and suddenly it is bright. Too bright. He cries out though he doesn’t make a sound, and desperately covers his face with his hands.

Of all the cruel things to do, not dimming the lamps is probably the worst. What has he done to deserve this?

Hands are on his, and he recoils again. It’s wrong all wrong, and it needs to stop.

Squeezing his eyes tightly from the violent onslaught, he finds himself retreating towards his closet. Which is also wrong, all wrong, he doesn’t want to go back.

And so he stills, slowly trying to remove his hands, seeing the bright red inside his eyelids, and it hurts, it hurts.

The red fades. That’s a relief. Grindelwald has decided the bright lights are too cruel after all.

He slowly, so slowly opens his eyes, staring pointedly at the floor, at his hands.

He sees the blood and puncture wounds covering his right hand, far more than usual. It truly is an alarming shade of crimson, his brain notes, detached. Grindelwald didn’t like it when he got blood on the carpet.

Every time he tries to raise his head from the ground, the lights seem slightly brighter, and it hurts, but he knows he won’t be permitted to hear until he can make eye contact at least once. The one time per day he is permitted to do so.

He sees shoes. They are womens’ shoes. And that isn’t right either.

He rapidly looks up, and meets the eyes of Tina Goldstein. She is somehow his height. There are two other Aurors in the room, but he can’t seem to break his gaze to see who they are. They are still tall like they should be. His vision is blurry and his eyes sting.

And Percival Graves is absolutely certain he is asleep.

He hates these rescue hallucinations the most. They weren’t fair.

He brings his hand to his mouth once more and lets the comforting pain wash over him, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. When he opens them he knows he will be in the closet.

But the rules are broken, and hands are on his again.

His eyes meet eyes of dark brown, they are the same color as his, they are the same color as Grindelwald's when he wears his skin, and yet he knows they are slightly different. Tina’s eyes.

She looks concerned. He’s not sure why, his hallucinations have never been particularly concerned for him before. His hand hurts something fierce though so he has to be awake. Tina Goldstein is in front of him so he absolutely has to be sleeping.

He closes his eyes, shuddering, and feels his chest heave with silent sobs.

For now he knows he is truly broken. He cannot know he is both awake and asleep, it has to be one or the other, and so there is only one logical conclusion. He has completely lost the ability to tell them apart and his hallucinations are just as strong as reality. He’ll have to convince Master he cannot go back in the closet. Master doesn’t need him to speak to be able to understand. Percival knows he lets his thoughts loose when he is alone in the closet. Master is a legilimens. Master knew everything he needed to know about Percival and he didn’t even need to lift a wand. But Master probably wouldn’t care that he couldn’t go back in the closet and put him there anyway.

There is a hand on his bare back, a hand on the hand he has placed in his mouth.

He opens his eyes and she is still there, looking at him. She is still his height. It doesn’t make sense. She is not a pet, so she should not crouch down. Not for him.

He can tell she wants him to stop hurting himself. He senses it somehow, as he almost always knows his hallucinations’ intentions. But he can’t do it. If he bites harder, surely he will wake up. Surely.

She is speaking to him. He knows but he cannot hear. He feels his blood drip slowly down his arm, and the sharp stinging in his hand. She has tears in her eyes. He has never liked seeing people cry.

He sees his hand, his bloodstained, imperfect hand, wipe just under her eye, trying to catch a big fat tear and smearing blood there instead. He frowns. He doesn’t remember deciding to do that. Her face is warm and wet and real.

A long dead feeling sprouts in Percival’s chest, as he looks from her tear and now blood stained face, to that of Abernathy, and Jones, a young fledgling recruit. He isn’t quite sure what he’s feeling but he knows it is good. He feels light, like anything could happen. Hope, he realizes.

Percival Graves prays he isn’t dreaming.

She holds his injured hand maintaining eye contact.

He feels the wisps of magic hitting him, but besides leaving him feeling warm, they don’t seem to be doing anything.

He imagines she is saying something comforting. She certainly strokes his cheek in a comforting way. So much better than when Grindelwald does it, because he does not have to pay for her touch with his dignity. Her touch does not make him feel pathetic and worthless. It is acceptable to crave her touch. He feels wetness on his face and knows he is crying.

“It’s going to be OK Mr. Graves”. He hears her say it. But he cannot hear. How can it be OK, when he is still hallucinating? But the pesky feeling of hope refuses to leave him.

And suddenly with a woosh, sound invades his ears.

Someone is shouting toward the front of his apartment, and he recoils, shaking off Tina’s hand to clasp his ears, pulling into his familiar seated position as best he can, screwing his eyes shut tight. He hears himself whimper. But of course, that is impossible too, for he has been silenced since the beginning.

The room goes quiet. He feels small hands placed over his, and he opens his eyes to see Tina’s. There are even more tears spilling down her face now. His throat feels raw. He wants to make her stop. There is no need to cry for him. He is not even human after all.

She is speaking to him, and he can hear it, but the words make no sense. And now he knows he can actually hear because words never make sense when his hearing is first restored.

Her tone is soothing though, and that’s all that matters. He hears a moan escape his lips, and he tips forward, his head colliding with her shoulder as sobs escape his body. Big, horribly loud sobs. Can he actually make noise? Has that been permitted him? He wishes he could smell her. Then he’d know for sure this was real. He has never been given that sense back, has never even dreamed about that sense, and if it was back, he’d know for sure.

Percival Graves prays he is awake.

“Shhh, it’s ok, I’ve got you.” The syllables and noise take a while to come together as words in his head. He can hear her. He can hear himself. So she should be able to hear him right?

He tries to quiet himself, get his breathing to even, his chest to still. He pulls away from her shoulder and the loss of contact is almost physically painful, but he has to make sure she hears him, make sure she understands.

“Is-“ the word sounds gravelly and burns as it leaves his throat, for he has not tried to form words in ages. What was the point when he was never heard? But he needs to ask, he needs to know.

“Is Master dead?”

He sees her horrified expression, and realizes he must have done something wrong. Perhaps his words weren’t as clear as he thought. He tries again.

“Is Master-“ oh. That was the problem. Damn it.

“Is Grindelwald dead?”

“Caught,” is the quietly whispered response. “They are extraditing him to England.”

And for a moment, his world plunges, because who will give him baths now? Who will take him out of the closet? There is no one, no one, and he is going to die alone, alone, for he is nothing but a pet, and one without a master no less- But he’s being ridiculous right? He is Percival Graves. Grindelwald is Grindelwald. Before no one fed him, no one bathed him, and he slept in his bed instead of on the floor at the base of it. That was right, wasn’t it? He had asked because Master being dead would have been a good thing – wasn’t it a good thing?

But it hurts to think, and he allows himself to tip forward to bury his face in the carpeting.

He hears more footsteps toward his bedroom. He hears gasps, before the frantic shushing and shooing.

“Mr. Graves?”

The voice is tentative. Tina’s voice, his mind helpfully supplies.

He forces himself to look up once more and meet her eyes. The eyes that are too much like his own. He wonders if his own eyes show such devastation.

“Can you stand?”

And the fear comes, because he is not allowed to stand, does not want to stand. He frantically looks away from Tina, not wanting to admit his weakness, only to notice Abernathy, looking determinedly at the floor his cheeks flushed, holding out a robe.

Oh.

It is only then he remembers he is naked, that he hasn’t worn robes in a long time. He feels heat rise to his face, and he realizes he is embarrassed. Embarrassed. Him! He thought he had forgotten how to feel that way.

And then laugh escapes his throat. It is followed by a guffaw, and suddenly he is curled up for a whole new reason. His whole body aches with the force of it, but he doesn’t care, for he knows he is still human, as pets cannot feel embarrassed at their nakedness, and he _is_ human, he is Percival Graves, Percival Graves, Percival Graves-

He feels his body being levitated. He can’t bring himself to care. He is embarrassed. His team is here. They are rescuing him. Rescuing him! He is not a pet. Ma- Grindelwald is gone. There is a future.

His body holds his near fetal position. He feels someone gently try to extend his legs, but they cannot and will not completely unbend. His back is screaming, not wanting to be completely straight. And he doesn’t care.

He feels the robes cover his body, realizes they have compromised for a bathrobe and underwear instead of a wizarding robe. The fabric feels uncomfortable and foreign against his skin, but he doesn’t care.

His body spasms, his chest heaves, and he stops making sounds but he is still laughing, the laughter so powerful it has stolen his breath and made him silent. He can’t stop.

“Everything is going to be all right Mr. Graves.”

Her voice cracks at his name, and there are even more tears than before. She is worried, he can tell, and he’s not sure why, because he knows her words have to be right. He feels hope, he feels embarrassed, he is alive, he is alive.

Percival Graves knows he is awake.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine this starts on the day Grindelwald should have returned, but was captured, and ends approximately 3 days later when MACUSA finally gets its act together and realizes the original Percival Graves may in fact be alive.
> 
> Feedback appreciated.


End file.
